I probably should be worried that the good men of Tinder will find about this blog. But the thing is, you should never put anything on the Internet that you don’t want other people to find. IT’S THE INTERNET. THIS IS YOUR DAILY REMINDER THAT THIS IS THE INTERNET.
The other thing is, I don’t know quite what the good men of Tinder would do about it. I guess they could screenshot my profile and put it up on a website and threaten to kill me. That’s what happens to women on the Internet. That’s terrifying.
I hope that doesn’t happen.
But other than that—there’s no way to comment on my profile within the app, so they can’t warn poor hapless souls coming down the pike about me. They’d have to make me Internet famous first, in an attempt to reach gentlemen living in the Seattle area within a certain radius and age range before they swiped left or right. If they make a flyer, I hope they use a good picture. Oh wait, I only posted good pictures. I may be vain, but I’m not an idiot.
The third thing is, this blog just isn’t that famous. I don’t think they’ll find it. Shhhh. Don’t share this with your friends. It’s our little secret. It would be awful if anyone actually found about this thing that I put up here in the hopes that people would find out about and pay me millions of dollars for my thoughts, which I have all day long, whether or not I want to.
What do you guys think it’s like to have a quiet mind?
The other danger in writing about Tinder is that my friends, coworkers, etc. could find out that I’m on Tinder.
And they’d be like, “Oh, I’m on Tinder, too!” Or, “My mom’s on Tinder.” Or, “I met my husband on Tinder.” Or, “My pastor’s on Tinder.” Because literally everyone is on Tinder. My married friends are mad that they can’t be on Tinder. It’s the greatest game of our generation.
I’m exaggerating, of course, but Tinder has reached a critical mass. I wouldn’t be writing about it otherwise. I don’t predict trends, I grab onto the tail end of them and hang on, screaming, all the way down the water slide.
At first, Tinder was a hook-up app. But so many people have joined that it’s been diluted. As far as I can tell, people are just using it like Craigslist now. Selling furniture, promoting bands, getting IG followers, asking people how to build that Ikea dresser…
This means that admitting you’re on Tinder doesn’t necessarily mean you’re trawling the ocean for fish to suck face with.
The other thing about Tinder’s critical mass is that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you’re thinking about online dating (or online Ikea-furniture-building), you want to be in the place where the people who you want to find want to be. It’s the opposite of that Groucho Marx quote, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” And YES, that is Groucho Marx and not Woody Allen. And NO, I don’t like Woody Allen and you can add him to the list of fictional characters you shouldn’t reference as a role model in your Tinder profile, along with Archer, Don Draper, Peter Pan, and Josh Lyman.
I’m serious about this one. If you’re looking for other people, go to where those people are. Not where you are. That isn’t working for you. Here, I’ll prove it: I am in my apartment. I love my apartment. There are not a lot of (read: any) straight single men in my apartment. Therefore, I should leave my apartment.
Now, there are a whole host of reasons why that is just ridiculous and clearly not going to happen, but you get my point. You may love knitting, but unless you just have to date a fellow knitter, maybe you should try going to the local meetup for hiking?
Or, you know, join Tinder.
The other reason that I’m just not that worried about the good men of Tinder finding this blog is that—well, it seems like sort of one of the hazards of interacting with me.
As Anne Lamott once said very wisely, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
Or, in other words—
I can’t remember who said this and a google search isn’t turning up anything, so maybe I said it—but dating a writer is like putting a snake in your pants. As Julieanne Smolinski put it in this astute article about enacting the seminal Kate Hudson–Matthew McConaughey movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, “But if I learned anything from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, it’s that love is a heinous abstract construct. Also, sleeping with a writer is basically like putting a scorpion in your pants.”